With Christmas approaching, let us delve deeply into the psychology of those who have played Santa Claus.

It’s not an easy job, and if you think otherwise, I would suggest that you can’t be doing it properly.

I’ve no time for those Santas who wear brown brogues instead of Wellington boots, whose breath smells of cigarettes and whose elasticated white beard is out of synch with their own brown or ginger hair.

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From the day I first played Father Christmas – aged 25 in 1986 – I wanted to avoid the accusation of being a “half-a-job Santa”.

Not only did I apply my late grandad’s spectacles and use full make-up – without any prompting from the management at the Castle House department store in Newcastle – but I thoroughly buried myself in the role, speaking in rich, fruity tones that I stole from the voice artist who used to do the Mr Kipling’s cakes adverts on TV.

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The atmosphere in my grotto was very warm and dry, but I used this to give my voice a cracked, aged quality more akin to a much older man. As long as I was in full view of the public, I remained in my Santa persona.

Of course, working in a busy shop, it was sometimes necessary for Santa to go and feed the reindeer – which was code for Mervyn’s break time.

This being the case, I had to walk from the basement section of Castle House up a couple of flights of stairs to the staff canteen.

On the way, I would be passing scores of customers, all of whom greeted me or made remarks. It was not a job for an introvert, and it was necessary to remain vigorously jolly at all times.